“No, sir. We halted every carriage and cart and searched them. No boy of any sort has gone through.”
Gervase looked at Madeline, met her eyes. “We’ll continue on to London.”
We. There hadn’t been any question, of course, yet Madeline had been relieved not to have had to argue. Being left in Cornwall while Gervase chased the carriage to London was unthinkable; she couldn’t not follow Ben, no matter that it was unlikely they could catch the carriage before it reached town, and that she had no notion of how to proceed once they got there.
Gervase would have; she clung to that and asked no questions—explanations would only slow them down and she could ask all she wished in the carriage once they were away—and let him organize all that needed organizing.
He was good at it, and thorough to boot. At his suggestion they rode to the main posting inn just outside Falmouth. By then, evening was drawing in, the long twilight taking hold; it deepened as the innkeeper, recognizing both Gervase and Charles, leapt to carry out Gervase’s orders. Ostlers scurried, readying horses, a coach was selected and made ready, and the inn’s best coachman summoned from his cottage.
The inn yard was lit by flickering flares by the time all was ready.
Charles and Penny, who’d declared themselves at Gervase’s and Madeline’s disposal, had agreed to go to Crowhurst Castle, to explain and watch over things there and at the Park. Gervase concisely outlined the mission he’d delegated to Harry—to watch over the beach where the boys had found the brooch.
“I’ll go to the beach myself, speak with Harry, and ensure the watch is kept up day and night. No telling what this blackguard or his henchmen might do.” Charles met Madeline’s eyes, took her hands in his, pressed reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You two concentrate on getting young Ben back safe and sound—you can leave all here to us.”
Sober and serious beside him, Penny nodded. She held Madeline’s gaze. “We’ll watch over your other brothers. We’ll be here when you get back.”
Madeline tried for a smile, but it was a weak effort. Having some other lady step in to watch over Harry and Edmond—she knew without asking that Penny understood; she’d mentioned she’d had a younger brother herself—was a huge relief. With that aspect taken care of, she could indeed focus her entire being on rescuing Ben.
Gervase turned aside as someone called to him.
Opening the door of the carriage, a sleek vehicle with four strong horses between the shafts, with the experienced driver
who swore he knew every pothole on the London road and just how to manage his leaders to get the best pace now on the box, Charles handed Madeline up.
Then Gervase was back; with a last word to Penny, then Charles, he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her.
Charles leaned in through the door. “If you reach London without catching them, call on Dalziel.”
Grim-faced, Gervase nodded. “I will.”
Charles saluted, stepped back and shut the door. He called up to the coachman.
A whip cracked, and they were off.
Night had fallen, the darkness dense and complete beneath thick clouds before Madeline’s mind cleared enough to appreciate the comfort of the coach, the warmth of the bricks Gervase had placed at her feet, the softness of the traveling rug beside her on the seat.
They were incidental comforts, but soothed nevertheless. The weather had turned; the night was cool.
Her blood seemed cold, too—too chilly to warm her.
Glancing out of the window at the variegated shadows flitting past, she wondered how far they’d come, how far ahead of them the carriage fleeing with Ben was.
Large and solid beside her, a source of steady warmth—steady reassurance and comfort—Gervase had closed his hand around hers as they’d left the inn yard in Falmouth, and hadn’t once let go. Now he lifted that hand, brushed his lips to her knuckles. As if he could read her mind, he murmured, “We’ll check at the major posting houses. It’ll take a few minutes, but if they halt on the road, we don’t want to overshoot them.”
She looked at his face, his profile. “Do you think they will stop?” She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine that.
He sighed. His lips twisted. “No. Whoever he is, he’s not stupid. He knows a hue and cry will be raised and that we’ll search for Ben. What he couldn’t know is that we’d realize so soon that he’s heading for London. He won’t expect us to be so close on his heels.”
She nodded and looked forward, letting her fingers lightly grip his, letting his hold on her hand, letting him, anchor her. One part of her mind was simply frantic; she’d never in her life felt this way—so at the mercy of a situation that was far beyond her control.
So helpless.
So vulnerable, not over her own well-being, but over the well-being and the life of one who, she knew, had been a surrogate child. Ben was the baby she’d reared; she held him closest of all to her heart.
If it had been herself at risk, she wouldn’t have felt this clawing panic, this fragility. An attack on her she would have met and weathered without emotional strain; an attack on Ben—on any of her brothers—was different. Such an attack held the power to devastate.
Gervase settled her hand on his thigh, his long fingers locked around hers. The steel beneath her hand, the sense of protectiveness the simple act conveyed…she noticed, appreciated, gave mute thanks, but could not, at that moment, find words to phrase her gratitude.